


baby love

by LydiaOfNarnia



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 20:37:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11066652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaOfNarnia/pseuds/LydiaOfNarnia
Summary: Ron wakes to the sound of screams echoing throughout the house.He knows exactly where he is: he is at home, lying in the comfort of his bed. Light is streaming in through the bedroom curtains, telling him that it must be early morning. He can see the indentation on the pillow next to him that reassures him Carwood hasn't been out of bed for long, and over the sound of crying from the kitchen he can hear his husband’s voice.Another interesting morning,Ron thinks to himself.





	baby love

**Author's Note:**

> this was moderately inspired by other fantastic parent AUs i've read in this fandom (specifically theonceandfuturecaptain's Daddy Speirs fic!), but mostly i just wanted to see Speirton being adorably domestic with each other, plus a baby.
> 
> Of course, the characters in this fic are based off of their fictional portrayals from the miniseries Band of Brothers, and I mean no disrespect to the real-life veterans!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [renelemaires](http://renelemaires.tumblr.com/)!

Ron wakes to the sound of screams echoing throughout the house.

He's wide awake in an instant, years of sharply-honed army instincts kicking him into alertness. It takes a moment for reality to settle back in, slowly lulling him down from the rush of adrenaline.

He knows exactly where he is: he is at home, lying in the comfort of his bed. Light is streaming in through the bedroom curtains, telling him that it must be early morning. He can see the indentation on the pillow next to him that reassures him Carwood hasn't been out of bed for long, and over the sound of crying from the kitchen he can hear his husband’s voice.

 _Another interesting morning,_ Ron thinks as he heaves himself out of bed. His joints pop, and he groans without meaning too; sleep makes his body feel sluggish, head hanging as he stumbles into the bathroom.

He's just about to brush his teeth when the fire alarm suddenly goes off, the shrill wail piercing the not-quite quiet of the house. He drops his toothbrush in the sink, making a beeline for the stairs.

He already has a clue what he'll find when he reaches the kitchen. He gets there, however, and still finds himself taken aback. He has to stop himself from doing an about-face and heading straight back to bed. There is absolutely _no_ reason for there to be this much chaos so early in the morning.

It was the sound of crying that woke him in the first place, but he isn't prepared to find their daughter in her high chair, fists clenched and face bright red as she wails to the sky. Her hair looks as if a bird has taken up nest in it, dark curls pulled into an unruly knot at the top of her head. Spilt juice drips from her tray; her sippy cup is on the floor at the other side of the room. The smell of something burning fills the kitchen, along with smoke and the wail of the alarm. In the middle of it all, Carwood is rushing around the kitchen in a rare display of stress, muttering to himself as he snatches the pan off the stove.

Instead of running away (Ron's faced down war zones, he can face _this),_ he takes a few steps further into the kitchen. He waits patiently until Carwood has dropped the pan of whatever he was trying to cook in the sink before clearing his throat.

His husband freezes up, shoulders slumping, before he turns to face Ron.

"Tough morning?" asks Ron, raising an eyebrow. He stoops down to pick up the sippy cup before placing it on the counter.

Carwood sighs, cracking open a window to let some of the smoke out. “You could say that.”

All it takes is pressing a few buttons on the panel on the wall to disable to alarm. Blessed silence rings throughout the house, cutting off even the baby’s wails. Carwood heaves a sigh, a fraction of the stress upon his shoulders melting away.

“I could say a lot of things, but I should probably start with, ‘Good morning.’ Even if it hasn't been one so far.”

Carwood is already reaching for a roll of paper towels, and huffs his exhausted not-quite-laugh.

"Rosie was up at four this morning. She wouldn't go back to sleep."

Ron's mouth twists in a frown, but Carwood only rolls his eyes as he mops up juice. "Don't start, you needed the sleep. You've been working all week long."

"So have you."

"Dada," Rosie whimpers, extending her arms towards Ron. Tearstained and sticky with juice, she makes a pitiful sight. "Dadada!"

She's babbling again; she only babbles when she wants affection and doesn't care what she has to do to get it. Ron doesn't hesitate before picking her up, giving Carwood the space to mop up the rest of the mess. He huffs as he adjusts the toddler in his arms; it's impossible not to feel guilty for forcing Carwood to look after her, just because Ron's too dead-asleep to pull himself out of bed. Carwood insists he doesn't mind, but that's just like him. He overworks himself like it's his job, and is more than willing to take on other people's responsibilities without complaint. It's just the way Carwood is, and Ron respects him for it as much as he hates himself a bit for putting him in that position.

With Rosie, they have to share the responsibility. She's their daughter. Anything other than that would be unfair.

This is a conversation they've had before. From the moment they decided to adopt, they were both very clear -- neither one of them would take on more responsibility than the other. They were going to be a family, and raising that family would be a team effort. (Ron feels warm inside every time he thinks of that promise made between each other, Carwood’s soft smile and the feeling of his hands caressing Ron’s knuckles as he said “I would love to raise a family with you.”)

Ron pulls Rosie's shirt over her head and begins wiping down her juice-stained chest, soothing the baby as she squirms. "Next time, wake me up."

Carwood glances over his shoulder to meet Ron's eyes. He doesn't protest, not when he sees the serious expression on his husband's face. He only nods, heaving a sigh. His lips twitch like he wants to smile but won't allow himself to, and Ron would kiss him if his arms weren't full of squirming baby.

"Wet, dada," Rosie whines. "Cold."

"It's not cold," Ron replies, feeling the water himself as it runs along Rosie's skin. It's just warm enough to be comfortable without burning her, but Rosie is obviously in one of those moods. She's running on too-little sleep just like they are, having resisted getting to sleep until well past midnight last night. Ron knows she'll be a grumpy terror until she crashes for her nap, but in the meantime they'll have to deal with it.

They keep a spare change of clothes in the kitchen drawer, just for situations like this. Ron pulls out a new shirt and softly urges Rosie to lift her arms. She does, and makes a little pleased noise when the shirt slips over her head. This, Ron knows, is one of her favorite things.

(That's something she gets from Carwood, Ron is sure: they're both able to find delight in the most mundane things. Their joy is infectious -- any time he sees them delighted, he can't help but be happy in turn.)

With Rosie dressed, cleaned, and calmed, Ron sits her on the counter and turns his attention to her hair. He studies the frizzy mess for a moment, poking at it, before frowning.

"I tried to do her hair," Carwood says.

“I can see that.”

Rosie’s style is pigtails, but Carwood has made a valiant effort at a bun. Effort, Ron emphasizes, because he wouldn't recognize this mess as a hairstyle if he was getting paid to. With his daughter’s reputation on the line, his hands find Rosie’s hair and gently begin to untwist it from the mess it’s been bound into.

“I did my best,” Carwood says. He sound so dismayed that Ron can't help chuckling.

“You tried. Gold star for effort.”

Rosie makes a happy noise as soon as her hair is loose again. It must have been pulled too tight, adding to her grouchiness. When she turns her head Ron loses the grip he has in her hair, but the grin on her face more than makes up for that. “Nice, Dada,” she says. “Leave hair. Leave it.”

“You need to get your hair done,” Ron tells her. “If you don't, it gets tangles, and then you cry when we have to comb them out.”

“Won't cry,” Rosie protests.

“Yes, you will, because tangles really hurt. I'll make it look pretty, Rosie, I promise. You know I always do.”

Rosie considers this for a moment before she nods and faces front once more. Though she's clearly not happy about having her hair pulled up for the second time in a single morning, she's willing to tolerate it as long as Ron is the one holding the ties.

It's a special point of pride for Ron -- he is the only one who can get Rosie’s hair just the way she likes it. As a result, she'll kick up a fuss if anyone else tries it. She won't let her grandmother near her hair; the one time her uncle tried doing it, she almost screamed her head off; she'll hold still for Carwood, but only just. Rosie’s hair is Ron’s specialty. The quiet moments between them as he pulls her hair up into neat pigtails are cherished. He'll never get tired of hearing her soft breaths, the whispers of _“soft, Dada,”_ if he tugs a bit too hard, or the gummy smile on her face when he announces that they're done.

“Beautiful,” he tells her now, just as he tells her every day, as he spins her around on the counter to face him. Her dark hair is now neatly arranged, and Rose raises a hand to feel it before nodding to herself. She gives Ron a broad smile, and he can't help himself; he leans down and kisses her square on the forehead.

When he’s got Rosie in his arms again, Carwood already has a new pan on the stove, and is busy preparing a new batch of eggs. He looks up as Ron crosses the kitchen to him; a gentle look flickers across his face at the sight of his husband cradling their daughter.

“You should get some sleep,” Ron tells him. “It's a day off. Sleeping in is the _point.”_

“You're so good at sleeping in,” retorts Carwood.

“I try my best.” Ron’s been in the military so long that he's pretty sure he'll never be able to sleep in again, but not for lack of trying. It's easier when Carwood is beside him, a warm body in bed next to him. It's easiest when there is a smaller form curled between both of theirs, slumbering with her stuffed panda bear clutched in a protective grip.

As Carwood continues to make breakfast, Ron gets Rosie settled in her chair once more

“Dada, pop? Me want pop. Where’s pop?”

“No popsicles for breakfast,” Ron tells her. This is a conversation they've had before. It always seems to go the same way; Rosie demands popsicles, Ron turns her down, Rosie pouts and turns to Carwood, Carwood turns her down, and then she goes sullen and refuses to perk up for a few moments until the disagreement is forgotten. She might ask again later, when she thinks she has a better chance. Carwood’s answer is always the same, strict about the “no popsicles before dessert” rule. If Ron’s in the right mood, he might be willing to forget this rule exists for just a little while. If it ever does slip his mind, it's a secret between he and Rosie alone.

Rosie knows the drill as well as either of them. Her lips jut into a pout. “Pop please?”

“You can have toast instead,” Carwood says, distracting her with ease before the argument can find its footing. “Do you want one piece or two?”

“Two.”

“Okay. Do you want Daddy to butter it for you, or Papa.”

“Papa do it.”

Carwood obligingly takes up the knife and begins to slather the piece of toast in a light layer of butter. The delighted toddler’s fingers and mouth are soon coated with a fine layer of grease, crumbs dusting her shirt. Rosie looks utterly pleased with herself.

“Our baby eats exactly the same way as Luz,” Ron mutters to Carwood around a forkful of eggs. “Ever notice that?”

Carwood blanches. “Oh god, please don't say that.”

Ron doesn't think they have to worry. However her table manners might be lacking, it's obvious that Rosie is much smarter than George Luz -- not to mention cuter.

Breakfast is quiet, with Rosie content to drain her sippy cup and occasionally pipe up a contribution to her parents’ conversation. Carwood and Ron talk about their plans for the day (a glorious amount of nothing) and speak in lower tones about plans for that evening, Rosie’s impending visit with her favorite Uncles Lew and Dick while Carwood and Ron have some “bonding time” together.

“Papa and Dada watch movies?” Rosie asks, dark eyes focused on turning her cup upside down to assess the amount of liquid left in it. Ron and Carwood exchange smirks.

“Yes, we’ll watch a movie,” agrees Carwood. “What movie should we watch, honey?”

“Animal Planet,” says Rosie with utter seriousness, before dropping her cup back onto her tray with a clatter.

Carwood and Ron exchange glances. Ron can't restrain a chuckle; there is such contentment glowing on Carwood’s face that it is impossible not to feel the same joy slowly well within him, filling him up from the inside out.

It took him a long time to accept the idea of giving himself to Carwood, and being loved in return. It took him even longer to decide that he wanted to raise a family with this man.

Looking at this moment, in their little slice of domestic bliss, Ron doesn't regret a thing.


End file.
